Aarohi had never believed in temple timings.
But this morning, she felt like she was the one being summoned.
The air near Radha Rani Mandir was… different.
Warm. Still.
Like the entire place was in pause, waiting for her.
A soft bell chimed once.
And a mute priest, draped in yellow, approached her.
He didn't speak. He just smiled.
Then handed her a folded letter — aged, sealed in red wax.
Her name was written in it.
In Hindi.
"आरोही"
"Who gave you this?" she asked.
He pointed upward.
Not to the sky.
But to the idol of Radha.
And smiled again.
Aarohi sat on the mandir steps, heart thumping.
She broke the seal.
Unfolded the paper.
And read:
"To the soul who returned,
You do not remember me, but I remember you.
You said we would meet again. Not in the same bodies, not with the same names.
But in the same place.
I knew it would be when the peacock danced again at midnight.
When the bansuri would play in reverse, not to haunt — but to remind.
You are not cursed. You are called.
And this time…
Don't leave before the Raas ends.
I waited 17 years.
**~ Vrinda**"
Aarohi's hands shook.
"17 years…?" she whispered.
The letter was dated the exact day she was born.
August 14, 2008.
Tears welled in her eyes.
Not from fear.
But from something deeper. Something… remembered.
She looked up at the idol of Radha.
"You knew, didn't you?" she whispered.
For a moment, she thought she saw a tear on the murti's cheek.
Or maybe… it was hers.
Behind her, Ishaan arrived breathless.
"Are you okay?"
She handed him the letter.
He read it silently.
And then —
he knelt.
Not to her.
Not to Radha.
But to something he couldn't name, but could finally feel.